Michelle Kwan – Adult fantasies

Of course Ms. Kwan would never do anything like is
described within this story. She has worked hard to
become the best figure skater in the world. A superb
athlete she has made many sacrifices to get were she is
today. This little fantasy has nothing to do with the
real world, but a guy can fantasize, can’t he?


From the window of my tenth-floor room at the Hyatt-
Regency Plaza Hotel in downtown Chicago, I stared through
falling snow at millions of lights glimmering and
glistening across the city on a dead and desolate
February evening. Chi-town, as the locals call it, can be
a dangerous place come February if one isn’t prepared for
freezing temperatures and frequent blizzards. But those
who live there are accustomed to the dark days of winter
because there’s enough going on in the city to drive off
any despair that might try to creep into their hearts.
They also know how to keep from freezing to death.

Chicago is known for more than its weather, anyway. For
the culturally refined, there’s the Civic Opera House,
the Spertus Museum, the Art Institute of Chicago, and the
Prairie Avenue Historical District. Those with fewer
cultural tendencies appreciate that deep dish pizza was
invented in Chicago in 1860, by a man named Salvatore
Bellomo, an Italian immigrant and chef for a now-defunct
hotel chain. For everyone, Lake Michigan provides
excellent fishing and boating in the summer and
snowmobile and skating in the winter. And when all else
fails, there’s always the sports teams.

Well, the basketball team, anyway. The only people who
pay attention to the Cubs or the White Sox or the Black
Hawks or the Bears live within driving distance of the
teams’ stadiums or arenas. But the Chicago Bulls are as
world-wide as Dr. Pepper and more popular than
Disneyland. They play their games in the United Center, a
vast spaceship-looking structure, which I could see from
my hotel window across Madison Street.

This isn’t to say that the Bulls won’t soon take a
nosedive into obscurity, like the Bears did after their
stunning 1985 season, which ended with a punishing 44-10
Super Bowl victory over the New England Patriots. The
Bears got a video on MTV out of that season and now
nobody knows who they are. No, a downward spiral is
inevitable for the Bulls. In fact, it’s already begun,
but Chi-town is trying to hold off the worst of it and
keep the magic for as long as possible. How long that
will work remains to be seen.

Michael is gone now, and Michael was Chicago. Michael had
put Chicago on the map in a bigger way than anyone,
including Salvatore Bellomo, else ever had. And Michael
had downright owned the United Center for forty-one
regular-season games a year and as few playoff games as
his team needed to send their opponents home licking
their wounds. But this season the Bulls, minus Michael
and Scottie Pipen and Dennis Rodman and brilliant coach
and inventor of the triangle offense, Phil Jackson, and
just about everyone else who had contributed to the most
dominating dynasty in the history of pro basketball, are
off to an embarrassing 5-30 start. They’d only lost 24
games over the entire last two seasons.

But the powerful afterglow of Michael’s reign isn’t
something Chicago sports fans are willing to part with
easily. Michael’s ghost still glows in Chi-town, and fans
buy every available ticket just to sit and watch the “New
Bulls” lose in the same arena where the Great One had
once won.

Earlier this afternoon, the United Center hosted an event
that probably didn’t fill half its seats, although the
event was televised in eighteen countries. Figure skating
is considered by many in Chi-town to be a girl sport, or
a guy-who-is-more-girl-than-guy sport, if you get my
drift. The sport is soft. Now, hockey skating is fine,
because hockey is a real man’s sport. In hockey, if a guy
bleeds, it means an opponent has caught him with a high
stick or he’s had his face run over with a sharp blade.

In figure skating, a bleeding male has probably been
corn-holed too close to the start of the show and has
managed to tear open his anal wall while executing a
triple-loop. Figure skating, so goes the thought, is for
the weak of heart and the confused of genitals. “Give me
a hot dog and an Old Milwaukee at frozen Soldier field
and keep your tights-wearing boys in the closet, where
they belong,” many might say. “The Bears are tough. The
Bears are rough. They can’t win to save their asses, but
they sure as hell don’t go Peter-Paning around in pink
muumuus and burst into tears every time they sprain their
ankles or somebody boos them.”

Never mind that four Bears players are gay.

This afternoon’s event, sponsored by the American
Association of Figure Skating Professionals, was, within
figure skating circles anyway, one of the most important
legs of competition leading to the National
Championships, held in October. Place high in the
Nationals and you go to the Olympics, it was just as
simple as that.

Judging by the scarcity of cars in the United Center’s
massive parking lot late this afternoon, Michael could
have drawn more fans to one of his celebrity golf

But now it was night and yes, Chicago was a different
world, full of things to do and surprises to be had, but
the pizza I ate earlier was making me dreadfully thirsty,
so I left the window and filled a cup with water from the
sink in the bathroom. I spit it back out. Warm. I can’t
abide warm water, nor will I. I remembered seeing an ice
machine in the hall on the way to my room.

I backtracked to the machine and opened its plastic door.
There wasn’t a single cube. There wasn’t even a drop of
condensation where some ice might have been. I stuck my
head inside the large cubicle, and it was warm in there.
When I dropped the door back down I saw for the first
time a half-sheet of yellow line paper taped to the front
of the machine and bearing the words:

Out of order. Sorry for your inconvenience. Please use
our ice machine on eleventh floor. Management. All
written in black permanent ink.

I rode the elevator to the eleventh floor. The inside of
the compartment smelled like an old rich lady’s perfume.
The doors opened on a green-carpeted corridor that looked
about the same as the one on the tenth floor. But it was
not the same. Like not even a part of the same hotel. I
knew this because the bellboy who’d insisted on carrying
my single suitcase to my room told me. The eleventh-floor
rooms of the Chicago Hyatt-Regency were actually three-,
four-, and five-room suites, complete with wet bars,
king-size beds, fully-equipped dining rooms and kitchens,
and Internet-ready computers. You couldn’t get into one
of them for less than $750 a night.

I didn’t need that kind of excess for what I was after,
although I suppose I could have afforded it. Call me
frugal, but if I’d thought I could have pulled it off,
I’d have rented a two-sleeper at the Lakeview Lodge down
on Halstead Street for $42.50 a night, or $7 an hour. But
all I could have attracted to that dump would have been
some tree-swinging jungle bunny of the Chi-town variety,
and, well, thanks, but no thanks. Still, glitz and show,
while they mean a lot to some people, have always been
empty concepts to me. There was only one thing in this
world that I wanted the best of–and got the best of–and
money couldn’t buy it and polish wouldn’t brighten it.
Unfortunately, sometimes you had to spend money to get
close to it.

I walked to the end of the hall and found nothing that
resembled an ice machine. My mouth was rapidly drying
out. It was all the damn salt in the pizza meat, and it
was sucking the moisture right out of me.

I turned the corner, looking back over my shoulder at a
cubby hole that housed what at first appeared to be an
ice machine but turned out to be an ATM, and ran face-
first into a small Asian girl in a hot pink warm-up suit
of brushed fleece. Actually, she ran face-first into my

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said. I prayed I hadn’t broken
anything in her. I guessed she was about 16.

“No, no, it’s my fault. I wasn’t looking where I was
going,” she said in un-broken English.

“Well, no harm done, I guess.”

Her short black hair was neatly styled, and just covered
her ears; the overhead lights picked up its blue hues,
that’s how black it was. Her makeup was heavy, given her
casual attire, but she looked good with it. Two silver
chains hung around her neck. A tumble of silver
bracelets, some with intricate turquoise inlays, gathered
sloppily at her wrists. On her right wrist she also wore
a silver Rolex watch.

“By any chance have you seen a pay phone around here?”
she asked me.

“No. Have you seen an ice machine? The one on my floor’s

“And the phone in my room is out of order,” she said. “I
pay nine hundred and forty dollars for a room and I can’t
even get a phone that works.”

“My phone works fine and I only paid two fifty; of
course, that put me down with the po’ folks, but you can
use my phone if you like. If you can’t find a pay phone,
that is.”

Our eyes met, and I could have sworn I knew her. Or at
least recognized her.

“Have we met–I know that sounds like one of man’s all-
time stupid pick-up lines, and I don’t mean it to be–

(not that I cared how it sounded because I already had

–but I’m sure I’ve seen you before.”

“I’m Michelle Kwan,” she said, and offered me a hand with
rings on every finger as well as on the thumb.

“The skater?”

“Yeah, the skater.”

“Hey, you must have been at the United Center earlier.”

She nodded. “Are you a fan of figure skating?”

“I know a little about it, not a lot. Was today your
short program?”

She nodded again. “Tomorrow afternoon’s the free skate.”

“Wow, well, it’s nice to meet you. I don’t meet many

“I’m not a celebrity. They make me out to be a celebrity.
Tonight I’m a girl who needs to use the phone and has
heartburn from that disgusting pizza downstairs.”

“Yeah, that pizza’s killer. Are you thirsty, too?”


“Never mind. If you want you can use my phone, and I have
a bottle of Tums. I had a little heartburn earlier, too.”

“I don’t want to put you out.”

I touched her small right breast, circling it with the
tips of my fingers. I wasn’t as big a figure skating fan
as I’d let on, but I was well acquainted with Michelle
Kwan from the sports pages of newspapers across the
country. She’d burst onto the skating tour at twelve and
after a couple of rough years getting her bearings she’d
begun eating up titles and gold medals like the yellow
Pac-Man head used to eat up enemies back when that game
was popular. Now, at nineteen, she was rarely ranked
below number three in the world. I would have recognized
her sooner in the hall but, I hate to admit, most young
Asian girls look the same to me.

I applied a gentle squeeze to where I guessed her nipple
was. “I’d like to have you.”

She looked down at my hand. “Have me, huh?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“I see.” She smiled at me. “After my phone call and Tums,
we could come back up here. I have this huge empty place
and no one to share it with. My parents won’t be here
till tomorrow morning.”

In my room she chewed four Tums and then made her phone
call–to her skating coach, who was staying in the less
prestigious Ramada Inn three blocks away. She told this
woman named Irene to make sure to bring her (Michelle’s)
old skates to the arena in the morning, not the new ones.
The new ones weren’t broken in yet and would blister her
feet. She also discussed plans for a set of X-rays she
wanted to have taken of her left leg in March. As she
stood there talking, I snuck up behind her and held her
by her skinny waist while I massaged her butt with my
cock, which was about to burst through my pants. (My cock
couldn’t tell one young Asian girl from another, either,
but it wasn’t interested in their looks.)

Her voice faltered, but she kept talking. I reached into
the front of her baggy warm-up pants and tickled her twat
through a pair of lacy panties. She covered the receiver
and closed her legs and said, “Stop!”

She might as well have been speaking Chinese.

I pressed her panties against her cunt, then stroked her
clit, which I could feel through the thin material. Her
shoulders rose over a huge breath.

“Yes, just arrange it,” she said rapidly into the phone.
“You know the numbers. I’ll be there by eight, right,
okay, right, we’ll have oatmeal or something, I don’t
care, right, I gotta go, okay, bye.”

She hung up the phone and I dislodged my hand from her

“You’re terrible,” she said with a thread of laughter in
her words. She wiggled and pulled at the front of her
pants. “Make me all sticky like that.”

“Yeah, but it got you off the phone and I’m dying of
thirst. Is there anything to drink in your room? All I’ve
got is warm water and no ice.”

“There’s a refrigerator,” she said. “No alcohol, but you
can find something.”

Her “room” was bigger than most expensive apartments I’d
been in. There was a full living room suite with two
couches and arm chairs covered in ritzy-looking gold
fabric; an entertainment center with TV, VCR, stereo,
computer, printer; a full bar with empty shelves and
stools in front for six people; a kitchenette and a
mahogany dinette set with padded chairs upholstered in
maroon splashed with black diamond designs; a bedroom
with a bed the size of Delaware and part of Maryland,
dressers, a walk-in closet, a private full bath, and a
twelve-inch television hanging in the corner. It would be
a wonderful place to live year-round if you could make
the $28,000-a-month rent.

We finished the tour and I downed the last of a chilled
bottle of Avian. Michelle had wanted to show me around
because she thought I’d be interested; obviously none of
this impressed her. Now she was staring up at me with her
big brown eyes, silently asking me to kiss her.

Which I did, and her lips and tongue slopped against mine
like the body of a drunk who’d just stepped off a curb
she didn’t realize was there. Michelle was a polished
kisser for her age. We slipped tongues and licked lips
for a long time, then she drew away and said, “I’m about
to lose my boyfriend.”

“Kissing can do that to you.”

“I’m serious.”

“How come you’re about to lose him?”

“We’ve dated for three years but he’s getting irritated
with me, I think.” She crossed to one of the couches,
plopped down, and pulled a pillow over her lap.

“What do you do that irritates him?” I said, and sat in
an armchair across from her.

“I told him about this fantasy I have. I said it involved
spanking and he got all weirded out. Well, I didn’t want
to tell him any more and risk embarrassing myself

“There’s more to your fantasy than the spanking?”

“Oh yeah, a lot more.” She flapped the chest of her pink
jacket. “A whole lot more, but Kevin’s just pretty
straight-laced, I guess. He’s studying accounting at

“Do you think your fantasy is embarrassing?”

“To me it’s not. To someone else, I guess it could be.”

“For what it’s worth, I can promise you that it wouldn’t
embarrass me, whatever it is, and I’d love to act it out
with you.”

“Really?” She slid out to the edge of the couch. “You’d
be better in it than Kevin would.”

“How come?”

“Because there’s a part that perfectly fits someone
older–not that you’re old, but Kevin looks about

“Have you ever done this fantasy with anyone?”

She shook her head. “It’s just my special secret since I
was about twelve. Kevin’s been my only real boyfriend,
and we didn’t have sex until I was 18, so I haven’t
really had a lot of opportunity. Anyways, I’m so busy
flying here and flying there, time just slips away from

I loved listening to her talk. She pronounced her words
without a hint of whatever Asian nationality she belonged
to, and she talked intelligently, almost as if she were
writing thoughtfully. She obviously had a superior
intellect, and I knew all about what effect brains could
have on a woman’s fantasy life.

“Do you think about it when you masturbate?”

“It’s all I think about then.” She paused. “It puts me in
a state that, well, I just get crazy. Crazy! Now that I
have my own place to live, I have to guard against
getting too carried away with it when I’m at home alone.
It’s really an obsession.”

“You masturbate a lot?”

“As much as possible. At least three or four times a
month. I don’t do it in the showers or bathrooms when I’m
touring or anything. I have to be in a nice safe place
and all alone.”

“Do you have orgasms?”

“Oh, my God. If other women’s orgasms are fireworks, mine
are Armageddon.”

Well, I was good to go for the apocalypse; I’ve always
been attracted to finales. “Are you going to tell me
about it, or do I have to find out the hard way?”

“Better than that, I’ll let you read it. I’ve written a
little scenario down and I keep adding to it and revising
it. I’ll be right back.”

She whirled off the couch and trotted to the bedroom. A
minute later she returned, holding a Macy’s shopping bag
by its cloth handles in one hand, a floppy computer disk
in the other. “I keep it on disk so I can have it with me
when I travel. Let me make a hard copy,” she said.

“While you’re doing that, I’ll visit the bathroom. That
water ran right through me.”

If her hotel suite was larger than most expensive
apartments I’d been in, the bathroom was bigger than some
of the more economic ones I’d seen. While I peed, I
noticed in the mirror a tiny red-sequined outfit hanging
on the door behind me. I flushed the toilet and had a
closer look at the garment. It was really no more than a
one-piece swimsuit, only with a short feathery skirt in
sheer red sewn at the bottom. I lifted the skirt and
placed my fingers against the crotch, which had a heavy
double lining on the inside. This must be the one she’d
skated in this afternoon, or maybe it was laid out for
tomorrow. I brought the small stretchy crotch to my face
and breathed deeply.

No, this was the one she’d worn today. Her scent was
faint, but frightfully fragrant. Some flowery aroma
fought with her girl-smell, and the combination
mesmerized me. Turning the crotch inside out, I stroked
the soft tan lining that had been pressed tightly against
her cunt while she skated and danced and jumped. I
imagined the lining stretching over her slit when she
kicked a leg around or leapt through the air like a

I gave my erection a few seconds to calm down, then went
back to the living room.

Michelle was seated in front of the computer and an ink-
jet printer was whirring and clacking. She took three
sheets of paper from the printer tray, fanned them, blew
on them, tested the ink with her thumb, then folded them
in thirds, the way one does a letter.

“You’re sure you want to do this?” she said. “Like you
said before, you’re sure you won’t be embarrassed?”

“Scout’s honor,” I said, holding up the two fingers which
had grazed the crotch of her skating costume.

“I’m asking because I don’t want us to talk about it
while we’re doing it. That would spoil it. It has to seem
real or I’d just rather not do it with anyone. I have
everything you’ll need right here.” She shook the
shopping bag. “I really hope this will be okay with you.
I’m pretty nervous.”

Nervous? The three-time U.S. Figure Skating Champion? The
girl who had thrilled the world in Lillihammer? I was the
one who was nervous; in fact, I was buzzing. And she
wanted to know if this was okay with me? I’m in a
luxurious hotel suite with Michelle Kwan and she’s about
to let me in on a secret fantasy to which she masturbates
like a wild woman and she wants to know if this will be
okay with me?

“This will be the best night of your life,” I said, and
reached for the sheets of paper.

“No, dress first,” she said, and handed me the Macy’s
bag, which weighed about ten pounds “Then read.” She sat
the document on the armchair.

“What’s in here?” I said, hefting the bag. “A suit of

“I’ll be in the bedroom. I’ll know when you’re ready.”
She wound past the bar, where she took a liter bottle of
water from the refrigerator, then disappeared though the

When she was gone, I opened the shopping bag and took out
its contents. A silver hard hat, like a construction
worker wears. A red-checked flannel shirt with a cigar,
unwrapped, in the pocket. A tool belt with hammer, tape
measure, carpenter’s pencil, and six-inch plane. I was
confused. Did she have a fantasy of meeting one of the
Village People? If that was the case, she should have
loved running in the circles of her male skating
colleagues, who were just as queer as the disco group,
only dressed a lot better.

I put everything on. The hard hat fit perfectly, but the
shirt’s sleeves were a bit long. I fixed this by rolling
them up to my elbows, a nice touch, I thought. I stood
there with the tool belt dragging at my waist and read
the three pages of single-space type, the text of which
she’d divided into Act I, Act II and Act III.

When I finished reading I was sweating and shivering.
She’d spelled it out step by step and it was an idea
she’d obviously put a lot of frenzied nights into
developing. I didn’t know how she had the presence of
mind to skate with all this in the back of her mind.

In addition to the general outline of what should take
place between us, she had supplied me with a two-column
word list. The left column was titled “DO NOT SAY”, the
right, “USE A LOT”.

Words under “DO NOT SAY” included vagina, cunt, pussy,
crack, hole, twat, box, slit, gash, beaver, and various
compounds using many of these with “hole”, such as “cunt-
hole”, “pussy-hole” and “twat-hole”. Below the word
“fuck-hole” in this column, she’d scribbled in red ink:
“Say this and you go home!”

Well, so much for all my favorite words. However, in the
smaller right-hand column under “USE A LOT”, she’d come
up with some pretty interesting replacements.

Chi-chi. Pee-pee. Down there. Thingy (she underlined the
“i.e.” and wrote: “Don’t say ‘thing.’) That was all in
that column, and she wrote that I could use these
liberally, as frequently as I wanted and at my
discretion. I felt like I’d been enrolled in Richard
Simmons’ Deal-A-Meal program.

A second two-column list instructed me on how I could and
how I could not refer to my penis, were I to choose to.
“Penis words are not as important as Thingy words,” she

Stricken were dick, hard-on, cock, prick, rod, pecker,
schlong, tallywhacker, snatch-banger, sausage roll, dip
stick, love gun, the Hammer of Atlas (where did she come
up with these?), and “anything else that sounds crude.”

The “USE A LOT” column for dick words included just
three: boner, member, and head. Okay, Richard, I’m game.
Ever since my daughter was born I’ve ballooned into the
size of a swimming pool. I just can’t stop eating . . .
please help me!

I re-read several complicated paragraphs to make sure I
had them straight. A p.s. at the end of the last page
said I could keep the note with me for reference if
necessary, preferably to be reviewed between acts. It was
signed, Love, Michelle.

To start things, I was to leave the room, go out in the
hall, then knock on the door. I guessed that would be
okay, dressed as I was. If anybody in the hallway saw me
they’d just assume I was there to fix the toilet.
Michelle had written:

“Our door is always locked. It’s locked because you tell
me to keep it that way while you’re at work. And I almost
always do what you say.”

And why shouldn’t she? I was her father, after all, and
she was only ten.

In the hall, a man in a slick gray suit looked at me as
he fiddled with his key two doors down.

“Here to fix the shitter,” I said, and he nodded and went
into his room.

When she opened the door on my fifth knock, I thought she
was someone else. The heavy clown-like makeup was gone,
replaced with just enough highlights to show off her
naturally pretty features. She had changed into a blue-
and-white-striped little girl’s dress that didn’t quite
reach her knees. The garment’s short sleeves were puffed
around her open arms. A four-inch white bow was sewn at
the elastic waist. She wore white knee socks and little
black buckle shoes. All jewelry was gone.

“Oh, Daddy!” She raced into my arms and hugged my neck,
pulling me down to her.

Okay, here goes, I thought, and said, “Now, now,
Michelle. You’re too old for that. Why don’t you run and
get Daddy a beer while I sit down and read the paper.”

Hey, that wasn’t too bad. I could get to like this acting

A Chicago Tribune and an ashtray had appeared on the
coffee table. I sat down my lunch pail, removed my tool
belt, and headed to a big soft easy chair, complete with

Michelle came skipping out of the kitchen with a freshly
opened can of Diet Coke. “Here’s your beer, Daddy.”

She sat the can on an end table.

“I was a very good girl today,” she said, twisting coyly
back and forth in front of me. My acting might have been
good, but hers could have won her an Academy Award.

Following the lead of her note, I said, “And have you
kept your hands off yourself while I was gone?”

“Oh, yes, Daddy. You said that touching my chi-chi was
very bad, so I never do it.”

“Did you make dinner?”

“Yes. Chicken and rice and green veggies. Mmmm.”

Yecch, I thought, but it sounded better than that pizza.
“Did you clean your room?”

Her fingers rose to her lips and her eyes looked
sideways. “Ooops.”

“Don’t tell me you forgot to clean your room!” I said

“I’m sorry, Daddy,” she cried, her hands pressing in
supplication against her chest. “I got busy and I

“You have been playing with your… thingy, haven’t you.”

“No, I haven’t. Honest.”

“Come over here.”

She stepped up to my chair and I grabbed her right hand,
according to instructions, and sniffed it. It actually
smelled like her cunt–I mean her thingy.

“Ah-haaaa! You have been a bad girl,” I bellowed. “I can
smell your chi-chi all over your fingers. You know what
happens to bad girls who touch themselves down there,
don’t you?”

“They have to have a spanking so they won’t be bad and
play with their little thingies anymore, right?”

“That’s right, Michelle.” I moved over to a straight
chair. “Now lay down on my lap.”

She eased herself onto the tops of my thighs. I would
have been surprised if she weighed eighty-five pounds.

The back of her dress draped sexily across her full butt.
She was rubbing her thighs together, sending residual
shockwaves into my dick–I mean boner.

“Are you going to spank my in my panties, or on my bare
bottom?” she squeaked.

Was I supposed to have an answer? I didn’t remember
reading that I was going to have to choose one or the

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